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IC-NRLF 


B    3   315 


\The  Torrent  <fr 
\TIie  Night  Before 


OROSVENOR  LIBRARY, 


BUFFALO.  N.  Y. 


NO. 


19    \3oo 


. 


THE  TORRENT 
AND  THE  NIGHT  BEFORE 
BY  EDWIN  ARLINGTON 
ROBINSON,  GARDINER 
1889-1896 


Qui  p»irTal$ii  Imittr  four  Hn  original  7 


PRINTED  FOR  THE  AUTHOR 

nocccxcvi 


!'oJte 


S  ' 


Reproduced  by 

DUOPAGE  PROCESS 

in  the 
U.S.  of  America 


Micro  Photo  Division 
Bell  &  Howell  Company 
Cleveland  12,  Ohio 


Copyright,  1KW, 
B»  KDWIN  ARLINGTON    ROIUN8O.V. 


7»«  Ritvrd.tr  Prt»»,  C 

Print*.)  by  R.  O.  Hw.fhtou  MM!  Cou,p.ny. 


This  book  b  dedicated  to  any  man, 
woman,  or  critic  who  will  cot  the 
H.  —  I  hare  dot*  the  top. 


THE   TORRENT 

>'.  •"•»•  *  :  .-•...  7 

;.»  I  rorxn  a  torrent  falling  in  a  glen 

Where  the  sun's  light  shone  silvered  and  leaf- 
split  ; 

The  lx»om,  the  foam,  and  the  mad  flash  of  it 
All  ma<le  a  magic  symphony  ;  but  when 
I  thought  upon  the  coming  of  hard  men 
To  out  those  patriarchal  trees  away, 
And  turn  to  gold  the  silver  of  that  spray, 
I  shuddered.     Hut  a  gladness  now  and  then 
I>id  wake  me  to  myse.f  till  I  was  glad 
In  earnest,  and  was  welcoming  the  time 
For  streaming  saws  to  sound  above  the  chime 
Of  idle  waters,  and  for  me  to  know 
The  jealous  visionings  that  I  had  had 
Were  steps  to  the  great  place  where  trees  and 
torrents  go. 

• 
AARON   STARK 

WITHAL  a  meagre  man  was  Aaron  Stark  — 
Cursed  and  unkempt,  shrewd,  shrivelled,  and 

morose  : 

A  miser  was  he,  with  a  miser's  nose, 
And  eyes  like  little  dollars  in  the  dark. 
His  thin,  pinched  mouth  was  nothing  but  a  mark ; 
And  when  he  spoke  there  came  like  sullen  blows 
Through  scattered  fangs  a  few  snarled  words 

and  close, 
•;•..  .    As  if  a  cur  were  chary  of  its  bark. 


—  6  — 

(ilad  for  the  murmur  of  his  hard  re iio>vn, 

Yearafteryear  he  shambled  through  tin-  town, — 

A  loveless  exile  moving  with  a  st;i!l ; 

And  oftentimes  there,  erept  into  his  earn 

A  Hound  of  alien  pity,  touched  with  tear*,  — 

And  then  (and  only  then)  did  Auron  laugh. 

THE   DEAD  VILLAGE 

II KICK  there  U  death.    Hut  oven  here,  they  Hay  — 
II«  re  where  the  dull  sun  shine*  this  afteruoou 
AH  deHolute  as  ever  the  M.-.id  moon 
Did  glimmer  on  tle.id  S;u-«li->    -  men  were  gay; 
Ami  there  were  little  children  here  to  play, 
With  small  soft  hand*  that  once  did  keep  in  tune 
The  string  thut  streteh  from  heaver,  till  too»i>oti 
The  change  came,  and  the  music  passed  uway. 

Now  their  i.s  nothing  hut  the  ghosis  of  thinga: 
No  life,  no  love,  no  ehildren,  and  no  men; 
And  over  the  forgotten  plaee  then-  eliugn 
The  strange  and  unremrml>eral>le  light 
That  is  in  dreams.  —  The  mu»ie  failed,  and  then 
<Jod  frowned, and  >hut  the  village  from  KUftigtti 

BALLADE  OP  A  SHIP 

DOWN  hy  the  tla>h  of  the  re>^ess  water 
The  dim  White  Ship  like  a  white  bird  lay; 
I«aughing  at  lite  and  the  world  tht -y  snught  her, 
And  out  she  Huung  to  the  silvering  hay. 
Then  oil  they  tit  w  on  their  ro\>tering  way, 
And  the  keen  moon  tired  the  light  foam  Hying 
I'p  from  the  MO«M!  ^here  the  faint  xtarn  play, 
Aiul  the  1  >onei«  of  the  hr.ive  in  the  wave  are  lying. 

'T  was    a    king's    fair  son  with    a    king's    fair 

daughter, 

And  full  three  hundred  beside,  they  nay, — 
Revelling  on  for  the  lone,  cold  slaughter 
So  soon  to  sei/e  them  and  hide  them  for  ave; 


—  7  — 

Nor  ever  they  knew  of  a  ghoul's  eye  spying 
Their  splendor  a  flickering  phantom  to  stray 
Where  the  bones  of  the  brave  in  the  wave  are 
lying. 

Through  the   mist  of   a  drunken  dream  they 

brought  hf*r 

(This  wild  wLiifc  bird)  for  the  sea-fiend's  prey: 
The  pitiless  reef  in  his  hard  clutch  caught  her, 
And  hurled  her  down  where  the  dead  men  stay. 
A  torturing  silence  of  wan  dismay  — 
Shrieks  and  curses  of  mad  souls  dying  — 
Then  down  they  sank  to  slumber  and  sway 
Wher^  the  bones  of  the  brtve  in  the  ware  arc 

lying. 

Prince,  do  you  sleep  to  the  sound  alway 
Of  the  mournful  surge  and  the  sea-birds'  cry 
ing? — 

Or  does  love  still  shudder  and  steel  still  slay, 
Wherethobones  of  the  brave  in  the  wave  are  lying? 

DEAR    FRIENDS 

DEAR  friends,  reproach  me  not  for  what  I  do, 
Nor  counsel  me,  nor  pity  me;  nor  say 
That  I  am  wearing  half  my  life  away 
For  bubble-work  that  only  fools  pursue. 
And  if  my  bubbles  be  too  small  for  you, 
Blow  bigger  then  your  own: — the  games  we 

play 

To  fill  the  frittered  minutes  of  a  day, 
Good  glasses  are  to  read  the  spirit  through. 

And  whoso  reads  may  get  him  some  shrewd  skill ; 
And  some  unprofitable  scorn  resign, 
To  praise  the  very  thing  that  be  deplores:  — 
So  friends  (dear  friends),  remember,  if  you  will, 
The  shame  I  win  for  singing  is  all  mine, 
The  gold  I  miss  for  dreaming  is  all  yours. 


—  8  — 
SONNET 

WHF.N  we  can  all  so  excellently  give 

The  mcasui  e  of  love's  wisdom  with  a  blow,  — 

Whv  can  wo  nut  in  turn  receive  it  so, 

Ami  end  this  murmur  for  the  life  we  live  ? 

And  when  we  do  so  frantically  strive 

To  win  strange  faith,  why  do  we  shun  to  know 

Tlmt  in  love's  elemental  over-glow 

(lod's  wholeness  gleams  with  light  superlative  ? 

0  brother  men,  if  you  have  eyes  at  all, 
Look  at  a  branch,  a  bird,  a  ehild,  a  rose  — 
Or  anything  (iod  ever  made  that  grows— — 
Nor  let  the  smallest  vision  of  it  .slip 

Till  you  can  read,  as  on  BeUbazzar  •  wall, 
TI.e  glory  of  eternal  partnership! 

HER    EYES 

1  i   from  i  In-  street  and  the  crowds  that  went, 
Morning  and  midnight,  to  and  I'm, 

Still  was  tiie  room  where  bin  ditvs  he  spent, 
Anil  the  .stars  were  bleak,  and  the  nights  were  slow. 

Year  after  year,  with  his  dream  shut  fast, 
.  He  sufYcred  and  strove  till  his  eyes  were  dim 
Fort  he  love  that  his  brushes  had  earned  at  List  — 
And  the  whole  world  rang  with  tin-  praise  of  him, 

lint  he  cloaked  his  triumph, andscarched, instead, 
Till  his  eheekiiwere sere  and  his  luiirsweregray, — 
"There  are  women  enough,  (Iod  knows,"  he 

said.  ...  '     ,.- 

"There  art*  stara  enough — whenthe  sun's  away." 

Then  he  went  back  to  the  same  still  room 
That  had  held  his  dream  in  the  long  ago, 
When  he  buried  his  days  in  a  nameless  tomb, 
And  the.starswerebleak,and  the  nights  were  slow. 


Seized  him  and  held  him,  until  there  grew 


Like  life  on  his  canvas,  —  plowing  and  fair, 
A  perilous  face  —  and  an  angel's,  too. 

AniM-1  and  maiden,  and  all  in  one. 
All  but  the  eyes.  —  They  were  there,  hut  yet 
They  seemed  somehow  like  a  soul  half  done;  — 
What  was  the  matter  ?  —  Did  God  forget  ?  . ,  . 

Hut  he  wrought  them  at  last  with  a  skill  so  sure 
That  her  eyes    were  the  eyes   of   a  deathless 

woman,  — 

With  a  gleam  of  heaven  to  make  them  pure, 
And  a  glimmer  of  hell  to  make  them  human. 

God  never  forgets.  —  And  he  worships  her 

There  in  that  same  still  room  of  his, 

For  his  wife,  and  his  constant  arbiter 

Of  the  world  that  was  and  the  world  that  is. 

And  he  wonders  yet  what  her  love  could  be 
To  punish  him  after  that  .strife  so  prim;  — 
But  the  longer  he  lives  with  her  eyes  to  see, 
The  plainer  it  all  comes  hack  to  him. 

SONNET 

TIIK  master  ami  the  slave  go  hand  in  hand, 
Though  touch  l>e  lost.     The  poet  is  a  slave, 
Ami  there  he  kings  do  sorrowfully  crave 
The  joyanee  that  a  scullion  may  command. 
Hut  ah,  the  sonnet-slave  must  understand 
The  mission  of  his  Inmdage,  or  the  grave 
May  clasp  his  hones  or  ever  he  shall  save 
The  perfect  word  that  is  the  poet's  wand. 

The  sonnet  is  a  crown,  whereof  the  rhymes 
Arc  for  Thought's  purest  gold  the  jewel-stones; 
Hut  shapes  and  echoes  that  are  never  done 
Will  haunt  the  workshop,  as  regret  sometimes 
Will  bring  with  human  yearning  to  sad  thrones 
The  crash  of  battles  that  are  never  won. 


—  10— 

ZOLA 

BECAUSE  he  puts  the  compromising  ehaH 
Of  hell  before  your  eyes,  you  are  afraid; 
Because  he  count «  thu  price  that  you  have  paid 
For  innocence,  and  counts  it  from  the  start, 
You  loathe  him.     But  he  sees  the  human  heart 
Of  God    meanwhile,  and   in  God's   hand   has 

weighed 

Your  squeamish  and  emasculate  crusade 
Against  the  grim  dominion  of  his  art. 

Never  until  we  conquer  the  uncouth 
Conniving*  of  our  shamed  indifference 
(We  call  it  Christian  faith  !)  are  we  to  Mean 
The  racked  and  shrieking  hideousncss  of  Truth 
To  Hud,  ill  hate's  polluted  self -de  fence. 
Throbbing,  the  puUe,  the  divine  heart  of  man. 

BALLADE 

IN  dreams  I  crowed  a  barren  laud, 
A  land  of  ruin,  far  away ; 
Around  me  hung  on  every  hand 
A  deathful  stillness  of  decay; 
And  silent,  as  in  bleak  dismay 
That  song  should  thus  for»akca  1*-, 
On  that  forgotten  ground  there  lay 
The  broken  flutes  of  A  ready. 

'Hie  forcitt  that  was  ail  HO  grand 

When  pi|>cs  and  tabors  had  their  away 

Stood  leatless  now,  a  glu«ntly  band 

Of  skeletons  in  cold  array. 

A  lonely  surge  of  aneu-nt  spray 

Told  of  an  unforgetful  .-ea, 

But  iron  blows  had  hn-died  for  ayo 

The  broken  Hutcs  of  A  ready. 

No  more  by  Hummer  breezes  fanned, 
The  place  wan  desolate  and  gray  I 


-11- 

.'•-'• 

I'ut  still  my  dream  was  to  command 

(fy.v      New  life  into  that  shrunken  clay. 
I  tried  it.  —  Yes,  you  scan  to-day, 
With  uncommiseratiiig  glee, 
'Hie  songs  of  one  who  strove  to  play 
The  broken  flutes  of  Arcady. 

... 

ENVOY 

So,  Rook,  I  join  the  common  fray, 
£;  .!.    .    To  tight  where  Mammon  may  decree; 
And  leave,  to  crumble  as  they  may, 
The  broken  flute*  of  Arcady. 

FOR  SOHE  POEHS 
:  .BY  HATTHEW  ARNOLD 

SWKFPINO  the  chords  of  Hellas  with  firm  liaud 
He  wakes  lost  echoes  from  song's  classic  shore. 
And  brings  their  crystal  cadence  back  once  more 
To  touch  the  clouds  and  sorrows  of  a  land 
Where  (lod's  truth,  cramped  and  fettered  with 

a  band 

Of  iron  creeds,  he  cheers  with  golden  lore 
Of  hcrocii  and  the  men  that  long  before 
Wrought  the  romance  of  ages  yet  unscanned. 

Still  docs  a  cry  through  sad  Valhalla  go 
For  Balder, pierced  with  look's  unhappy  spray  — • 
For  Haider,  all  but  spared  by  Frca's  charms; 
And  still  does  art's  im|«>rial  visU  show, 
On  the  hushed  sands  of  Oxus,  far  away, 
Young  Suhrab  dying  in  his  father's  arms. 


• 


GEORGE CRABBE 

GIVE  him  the  darkest  inch  your  shelf  allows, 
Hide  him  in  lonely  garrets,  if  you  will,  — 
But  his  hard,  human  pulse  is  throbbing  still 
With  the  sure  strength  that  fearless  truth  eu- 
dows:  — 


—  12  — 

In  spite  of  nil  flue  science  disavows, 
Of  hi*  plain  excellence  and  stubborn  skill 
There  vet  remains  what  fashion  cannot  kill, 
Though  \  ears  have  thinned  the  laurel  from  his 
brows. 

Whether  ur  not  we  read  him,  we  can  frel 
Front  time  to  time  the  \igor  of  his  namu 
A^ain\t  us  like  u  tinker  for  the  shame 
And  emptiness  of  vthat  our  hoiils  reveal 
In  bo««l»  -  that  are  as  altars  when'  \ve  kneel 
To  «  on  -.  .-rate  the  tiirker,  not  the  tlaiue. 

5ONNET 

On,  for  a  poet  —  for  a  beacon  bright 
To  rift  this  changeless  glimmer  of  dead  gr»y: 
To  spirit  back  the  Muses,  long  astray, 
And  flush  Parnassus  with  u  newer  light: 
To  put  thrse  little  sonnet-men  to  ill-lit 
Who  fashion,  in  a  .shrewd  meehanic  way, 
Son^s  without  sou l.t  that  flicker  for  u  day 
To  vanish  in  irrevocable  night. 

What  does  it  mean,  this  barren  age  of  ours? 
Here  arc  the  men,  thu  women,  and  the  Howen, — 
The  h«'as«»ns,  and  the  sunset,  as  before. 
What  does  it  mean?  —  Shall  not  one  burd  arise 
To  wrench  one  banner  from  the  western 
And  mark  it  with  his  name  for  evermore? 

THE  ALTAR 

AI.ONK,  remote,  nor  witting  where  I  went, 
1  found  an  altar  huildrd  in  u  dream  — 
A  fiery  place,  whereof  there  was  a  gleam 
So  uwift,  so  Hcarchintf,  and  MO  eloquent 
Of  upward  promise  that  IOVC'M  murmur,  blent 
With  sorrow's  warning,  gave  but  a  supreme 
Intending  impulse  to  that  human  stream 
Whose  Hood  was  all  for  the  flame'*  fury  U'tit. 


} 


—  13  — 

Alas!  I  said,  —  the  world  is  in  the  wrong.  — 
Hut  the  same  quenchless  ferer  of  unrest 
That  thrilled  the  foremost  of  that  martyred  throng 
Thrill,  il  me,  and  I  awoke  .  .  .  and  was  the  same 
Bewildered  insect  plnnging  for  the  flame 
That  burns,  and  must  bum  somehow  for  the  best. 

THE  HOUSE  ON  THE  HILL 

TIIFY  are  all  gone  away. 
The  House  is  shut  and  still, 
There  is  nothing  more  to  say. 

Through  broken  walls  and  gray 
The  winds  blow  bleak  and  shrill; 
They  are  all  g<»ne  away. 

Nor  is  there  one  to-dav 

To  speak  them  good  or  ill:    . 

There  is  nothing  more  to  say. 

Why  is  it  then  we  stray    • 
Around  that  sunken  sill? 
They  are  all  gone  away, 

'•  ;:*'  And  our  poor  fancy-play 
For  them  is  wasted  skill: 
There  is  nothing  more  to  say. 


There  is  ruin  and  decay 
In  the  House  on  the  Hill: 
They  are  all  gone  away, 
There  Ls  nothing  more  to  say. 


THE  WILDERNESS 
4, 

COMF  away !  come  away !  —  there 's  a  frost  along 


the  marshes, 

And  a  frozen  wind  that  skims  the  shoal  where 
it  shakes  the  dead  black  water; 

There  '»  a  moan  across  the  lowland  and  a  wail 
ing  through  the  woodland 


. 


-H- 

Of  a  dirge  that  sings  to  gend  us  back  to  the  anna 

of  those  that  love  us. 
There  is  nothing  left  hut  ashen  now  where  the 

crimson  chills  of  autumn 
Put  off  the  summer's  languor  with  a  touch  that 

made  us  glad 
For  the  glory  that  is  gone  from  us,  with  a  flight 

we  eanuot  follow, 
To  the  :>lii|.«'s  of  oilier  valley*  and  the  kounds  of 

other  shores. 

_ 
Come  airaiff  com?  atrtiy!  —  •  you  <vm  hear  them 

cnlliny,  callini/, 

Calling  n.«  to  come  to  thtin,  and  roam  no  more. 
Oi'tr  thrre  beyond  the  ritfyct  and  the  Inml  that  lie* 


There  '*  an  old  tot\g  calling  us  to  come! 

Come  away!  come  away!  —  for  the  iceue»  we 

leave  behind  us 
Are  barren  for  the  lights  of  home  ami  a  flame 

that  'a  young  forever; 
And  the  lonely  trees  around  us  creak  the  warn 

ing  of  the  night-wind, 
That  love  and  all  the  dreams  of  love  are  away 

beyond  tin-  mount  aiiiH. 
The  songs  that  call  for  us  to-night,  they  have 

called  for  men  In-fore  us,  — 
And  the  winds  that  hlow  the  message,  they  have 

blown  ten  thousand  years; 
Hut  this  will  end  our  wander-time,  for  we  know 

the  joy  that  waits  us 
In  the  NtrangeiieMN  of  home-coming,  ami  a  faith 

ful  woman'ii  eyes. 


Comf   tuniff!  t-innr   nirmj!  —  tttrrf  in   imthiny  non- 

to  clut-r  in  — 

\utfiinif  non'  to  comfort  m,  hut  lotr't  road  komf: 
Over  there  twi/und  thf  dnrinest  there  '*  a  window 

f/lniim  to  t/reet  nx, 
And  a  wartn  hmrth  icttitafor  u*  uithtn. 


—  15  — 

Con»e  away!  come  away!  —  or  the  roring-fiend 

will  hold  us, 
And  make  us  all  to  dwell  with  him  to  the  end 

of  human  faring: 
There  are  no  men  yet  can  leave  him  when  bis 

hands  are  clutched  upon  them, 
There  are  n«»ue  will  own  his  enmity,  there  are 

none  will  call  him  hrother.  — 
80  we  '11  !*>  up  and  on  the  way,  and  the  less  we 

hrag  the  better 
For  the  freedom  that  God  gave  us  and  the  dread 

we  do  not  know:  — 
The  frost  that  skips  the  willow-leaf  will  again 

IK?  hack  to  hlight  it, 
.  And  the  doom  we  cannot  fly  from  is  the  doom 

we  do  not  see. 

Come  awy.'  CWTS  airay!  there  are  dead  men  all 

an  Hind  H*  — 

Frozen  mm  thai  muck  >i.«  irilh  n  iri'W,  hard  laugh 
That  fhrifk*  and  nini.ii  and  trhimpen  in  the  thrill 


And  the  long  fall  trind  on  the  lake. 
LUKE   HAVERQAL 

Go  to  the  western  gate,  Luke  Havergal,  — 
There  where  the  vines   cling  crimson    on  the 

wall,— 

And  in  the  twilight  wait  for  what  will  come. 
The  wind  will  moan,  the  leaver  will  whisper 

some  — 

Whisper  of  her,  and  strike  yon  as  they  fall; 
But  go,  and  if  you  trust  her  she  will  call,  — 
Go  to  the  western  gate,  Luke  Havergal,  — 

*»*•»¥  1 

Luke  Havergal.  * 

.'!'.' 

No,  there  is  not  a  dawn  in  eastern  skies 

To  rift  the  fiery  night  that  's  in  your  eyes  ;  »V"-*'*i-« 

But  there,  where  western  glooms  are  gathering, 

The  dark  will  end  the  dark,  if  anything:  — 


.  •  .••• 
•v  ,'  •,' 


-10  — 

God  idaya  Himself  with  every  leaf  that  flie«, 
And  hell  in  inort*  than  half  of  paiadi.se.  — 
No,  then*  is  nut  a  dawu  iu  i  .1-  1»  i  n  skies, 
lu  eastern  bkics. 

Out  of  a  grave  I  come  to  tell  you  tin-.,  — 
Out  of  a  grave  I  come  to  quench  the  kis4 
That  ll.iMu-s  UJMHI  your  forehead  with  a  glow 
That  blinds  you  to  the  way  that  >«-u  must  fro. 
Yes,  there  is  yet  one  way  to  where  she  is  — 
Hitter,  hut  one  th.it  faith  can  never  mi-,.  — 
Out  of  a  grave  I  come  to  tell  you  this, 
To  tell  you  tin*. 

There  is  the  western  gate,  Luke  Havcrgul, 
There  are.  the  crimson  leaven  upon  the  wall. 
(io,  —  for  the  winds  are  tearing  them  away  — 
Nur  think  to  riddle  the  dead  words  they  hay, 
Nor  any  IMI  in-  to  feel  them  an  they  fall; 
Hut  p>!  and  if  you  trust  her  she  will  call.  — 
There  is  the  western  gate,  Luke  llavergul,  — 
Luke  Havergal. 

THE    CHORUS    OF 
OLD  HEN    IN 


YK  god*  that  have  u  home  beyond  the  world, 

Ye  that  have  eye:)  for  all  in.iu's  agotiVi 

Ye  that  have  seen  this  woe  that  we  have  nceii,  — 

Look  with  a  ju»t  regard, 

And  with  an  even  grace, 

Here  on  the  shattered  corpse  of  a  shattered  king, 

Here  on  a  biitVering  world  where  men  grow  old 

And  wander  like  Had  shadow*  till,  at  hist, 

Out  of  the  Hare  of  life, 

Out  of  the  whirl  of  years, 

Into  the  mLst  they  go, 

Into  the  mUt  of  death. 

O  hhadct  of  you  that  loved  him  long  before 
The  cruel  threads  of  that  black  s.ul  were  spun, 


—  17  — 

May  loyal  anus  and  ancient  welcomiugs 

Receive  him  once  a^ain 

Who  now  no  longer  moves 

Here  in  this  flickering  dance  of  changing  days 

Where  a  battle  is   lost  and  won  for  a  withered 

wreath. 

And  the  Mack  master  Death  is  over  all, 
To  chill  with  his  approach, 
To  level  with  his  touch, 
The  reigning  strength  of  vonth, 
The  fluttered  heart  of  age. 

Woe  for  the  fateful  day  when  Delphi's  word 
was  lost  — 

Woe  for  the  loveless  prince  of  ..Tithra's  line! 

Woe  for  a  father's  tears  and  the  curse  of  a 
king's  release  — 

Woe  for  the  wings  of  pride  and  the  shafts  of 
doom!  *— 

And  thott  the  saddest  wind 

Tliat  ever  blew  from  Crete, 

Sing  the  fell  tidings  Itack  to  that  thrice  un 
happy  ship!  — 

Sing  to  the  western  flame, 

Sing  to  the  dying  foam, 

A  dirge  for  the  snndered  years  and  a  dirge  for 
the  years  to  he! 

JJetter  his  end  had  l>eeu  as  the  end  of  A  cloud 
less  day, 

Bright,  l»y  the  word  of  Zens,  with  a  golden  star, 

Wrought  of  a  golden  fame,  and  flnng  to  the 
central  sky, 

To  gleam  on  a  stormless  tomh  for  evermore:  — 

Whether  or  not  there  fell 

To  the  touch  of  an  alien  hand 

The  sheen  of  his  purple  robe  and  the  shine  of 
his  diadem, 

(letter  his  end  had  Wen 

To  die  as  an  old  man  dies, — 

But  the  fates  are  ever  the  fates,  and  a  crown  i« 
ever  a  crown. 


•_JL 


—  18  — 

THE   niRACLE 

14  DKAR  brother,  dearest  friend,  when  I  am  dead, 

And  you  shall  see  no  more  this  faee  of  mine, 

Let  nothing  but  red  roses  be  the  sign 

Of  tho  white  life  I  lost  for  him,"  she  said;  ' 

14  No,  do  not  curse  him,  —  pity  him  instead; 

Forgive  him!  —  forgive  me!  .  .  .  (iod's  anodyne 

Fur  human  hate  is  pity;  and  the  wine 

That  makes  men  wise,  forgiveness.     1  have  read 

Love's  message,  in  love's  murder,  and  I  die." 

And  so  they  laid  her  just  where  she  would  lie,  — 

Under  red  roses.      Ked  they  bloomed  and  fell; 

Hut  when  Hushed  autumn  and  the  snows  went  by, 

And  spring  came,  —  lo,  from  every  bud's  green        .    . 

shell 
Burst  a  white  blossom.  —  Can  love  reason  why? 

HORACE   TO   LEUCONOE 

I  PRAY  you  not,  IxMiconoe,  to  jmre 
With  unpermittcd  eyes  on  what  may  be 
Appointed  by  tin-  gods  for  you  und  me, 
Nor  on  Chuldfuu  figures  any  more. 
'T  were  infinitely  better  to  implore 
The  present  only:  —  whether  Jove  decree 
Mure  winters  yrt  to  come,  or  whether  he 
Make  even  this,  whose  hard,  wavc-cutcn  shore 
Shutters  the  Tuscan  seas  to-day,  the  last  — 
He  wise  withal,  and  rack  your  wine,  nor  fill 
Your  bosom  with  large  hopes;  for  while  1  sing, 
The  envious  close  of  time  is  narrowing:- 
So  seize  the  day,  —  or  ever  it  be  past  — — 
And  let  the  morrow  come  for  what  it  will. 

THE    BALLADE 

OF    DEAD    FRIENDS 

As  we  the  withered  ferns 
By  the  roadway  lying, 
Time,  the  jester,  spurns 


—  19  — 

All  our  prayers  and  prying,— 
All  our  tears  and  sighing, 
Sorrow,  change,  and  woe,  — 
All  our  where-and-whying 
For  friends  that  come  and  go. 

Life  awakes  and  burns, 

Ape  and  death  defying, 

Till  at  last  it  learns 

All  but  Ix»ve  i*  dying;  — 

Love 's  the  trade  we  're  plying, 

God  has  willed  it  so; 

Shrouds  are  what  we  're  buying 

For  friends  that  come  and  go. 

Man  forever  yearns 
For  the  thing  that fs  flying: 
Everywhere  he  turns, 
Men  to  dust  are  drying  — 
Dust  that  wanders,  eyeing 
(With  eyes  that  hardly  glow) 
New  faces,  dimly  spying 
For  friends  that  come  and  go. 


ENVOY 

And  thus  we  all  are  nighing 
The  truth  we  fear  to  know: 
Death  will  end  our  crying 
For  friends  that  come  and  go. 

VILLANELLE  OF  CHANGE 

SINCE  Persia  fell  at  Marathon, 

The  yellow  years  have  gathered  fast: 

Long  centuries  have  come  and  gone. 

And  yet  (they  say)  the  place  will  don 
A  phantom  fury  of  the  past, 
Since  Persia  fell  at  Marathon; 


—  20  — 

And  as  of  old,  when  Helicon 

Trembled  and  swayed  with  rapture  viwt 

(Long  centuries  have  coiue  and  gone), 

This  ancient  plain,  when  night  comes  on, 
Shakes  to  a  ghostly  battle-blast, 
Since  Persia  fell  at  Marathon.  — 

Hut  into  soundless  Acheron 

The  glory  of  (ireek  shame  was  cant: 

Long  centuries  'have  come  and 


The  suns  of  Hellas  have  all  shone, 
The  first  has  fallen  to  the  last:  — 
Since  1'ersia  fell  at  Marathon, 
Long  centuries  have  conic  and  gone. 

THOHAS    HOOD 

Tut:  man  who  cloaked  his  bitterness  within 
Thitt  vrituling-idicet  of  puns  and  pleasantries, 
(i.>«l  never  -  i\r  to  look  with  common  ejes 
I'IMIU  a  world  of  anguish  and  of  hin:  — 
His  brother  was  the  branded  man  of  Lynn; 
And  there  are  woven  with  his  jollities 
The  nameless  and  eternal  tragedies 
That  render  hope  and  hopcleitiiuett  akin. 

We  laugh,  and  crown  him;  but  anon  we  feel 
A  still  chord  sorrow  swept,  —  a  weird  unrest; 
And  thin  dim  shadows  home  to  midnight  steal, 
As  if  the  very  ghost  of  mirth  were  dead  — 
As  if  the  joys  of  time  to  dreams  had  tied, 
Or  sailed  away  with  lues  to  the  Writ. 

FOR    A    BOOK 

BY   THOflAS    HARDY 

WITH  searching    feet,  through  dark  circuitous 

ways, 
I  plunged  and  stumbled;  round  me,  far  and  near, 


—  21  — 

Quaint  horde*  of  eyeless  phantoms  did  appear, 
Twisting  and  turning  in  a  bootless  chase, — - 
When,  like  an  exile  given  by  God's  grace 
To  feel  onee  more  a  human  atmosphere, 
I   caught   the  world's  first  murmur,  large  and 

clear, 
Flung  from  a  Ringing  river's  endless  race. 

Then,  through  a  magic  twilight  from  below, 

I  heard  its  grand  sad  song  as  in  a  dream: 

Life's  wild  infinity  of  mirth  and  woe 

It  sang  me;  and,  with  many  a  changing  gleam, 

Across  the  music  of  its  onward  flow, 

I  saw  the  cottage  lights  of  Wessei  beam. 

SUPREMACY 

TUFRF.  is  a  drear  and  Ir.nely  tra«-t  of  hell 
From  all  the  common  gloom  removed  afar: 
A  Hat,  sad  land  it  is,  where  shadows  are 
Wh«.sc  lorn  estate  my  vers,e  may  never  tell. 
1  walked  among  them  and  I  ku^w  them  well: 
Men  I  hud  slandered  on  life's  little  star 
For  churl*  and  sluggard*;  and  I  knew  the  sear 
t'pon  their  brows  of  woe  Ineffable. 

Hut  as  I  went  majestic  on  my  way, 
Into  the  dark  they  vanished,  one  by  one, 
Till,  with  a  shaft  "of  God's  eternal  day, 
The  dream  of  all  my  glory  was  undone,  — 
And,  with  a  fool's  importunate  dismay, 
I  heard  the  dead  men  singing  in  the  sun. 

THREE   QUATRAINS 


As  long  as  Fame's  imperious  music  rings 
Will  poets  mock  it  with  crowned  words  august; 
Ami  haggard  men  will  clamber  to  be  kings 
As  long  as  Glory  weighs  itself  in  dust. 


—  22  — 


Drink  to  the  splendor  of  the  unfulfilled, 
Nor  shudder  for  the  revel*  that  are  done:  — 
The  wines  tli.it  Hushed  Luenllu*  are  all  spilled, 
The  string*  that  Nero  fingered  are  all  gone. 

HI  .-' 

We  cunuot  crown  ourselves  with  everything, 
Nor  e.m  we  coax  the  Fates  for  us  to  quarrel:  — 
No  matter  \%h  it  we  air,  or  what  we  sing, 
Time  tiiuU  a  withered  leaf  in  every  laurel. 

FOR  CALDERON 

AND  now,  inv  brother,  it  is  time 

For  mi-  to  tell  the  truth  to  you: 

To  tell  the  story  of  a  erime 

As  blaek  as  Mona's  eyes  wen-  blue.  — 

Yen,  here  to  -night,  before  I  die, 

1  '11  .speak  the  words  that  burn  in  me; 

And  you  may  send  them,  bye-and-bye, 

To  Calderon  acroa*  the  sea. 

Now  get  Mime  paper  atid  a  pen, 

And  hit  tight  here,  beside  my  U-d. 

Write  every  word  I  say,  and  then  — 

And    then    .    .    .    well,"  what    then?  —  I  '11    be 

dead!  — 

.  .  .   Hut  here  I  am  alive  enough, 
And  I  remember  all  I  'vo  done  .  .  . 
(iod  knows  Nvli.it  I  was  thinking  of!  — 
Hut  send  it  home  —  to  Calderon. 

And  you,  Franeisco,  brother,  say,  — 
What  is  there  for  a  man  like  me?—- 
1  tell  you  (104!  sounds  far  away  — 
AH  far—  almost  as  far  — as  she! 
I  killed  her!  .  ,  .  Yes,  I  i>oi*oned  her  — 
So  slowly  that  »ho  never  knew  .  v',  / 
Franeiseo,  —  I  'm  a  murderer.  — 
Now  tell  me  what  there  \.->  to  do! 


—  23  — 

To  die  — of  course  ;  but  after  that, 

I  wonder  if  I  live  again! 

And  if  I  live  again,  for  what?  — 

To  suffer  ?  .  .  .  Hah!  —  there  is  DO  pain 

But  on«-;  and  that  I  know  so  well 

That  I  can  shame  the  devil's  eyes!  .  .  . 

For  twenty  years  I  've  heard  in  hell 

What  Mona  sings  in  Paradise! 

Strange,  that  a  little  Xorthern  girl 

Should  love  niv  brother  Caldcrou, 

And  set  my  brain  so  in  a  whirl 

That  I  was  mad  till  she  was  gone!  ... 

I  wonder  if  all  men  l»e  such 

As  I  ?  —  I  wonder  what  love  is!  — 

I  never  loved  her  very  much 

I'ntil  I  saw  that  she  was  his;  — 

And  then  I  knew  that  I  was  lost: 
And  then  —  I  knew  that  I  was  mad." — 
I  reasont  d  what  it  all  would  cost, 
But  that  wax  nothing. —  I  was  glad 
To  feel  myself  so  foul  a  thing!  — 
And  I  was  glad  for  Calderon.  ... 
My  God!  if  he  could  hear  her  sing 
Just  oisce,  as  I  do!  —  There!  she  's  done. 

Xo,  it  was  only  something  wrong 
A  minute  — something  in  my  head.  — 
(tod,  no  !  —  she  *11  never  stop  that  song 
As  long  as  I  'm  alive  or  dead! 
As  long  as  I  am  here  or  there, 
She  11  sing  to  me,  a  murderer!  — 
Well,  I  suppose  the  gods  are  fair.  .  .  . 
I  killed  her  .  .  .  yes,  I  poisoned  her! 

But  yon,  Francisco,  —  you  are  young;  — 
So  take  my  hand  and  hear  me,  now:  — 
There  are  no  lies  upon  jour  tongue, 
There  is  no  guilt  upon  your  brow.  — 
But  there  is  blood  upon  jour  name  ?  — 
And  blood,  you  say,  will  rust  the  steel 


—  24  — 

That  strike*  for  honor  or  for  shame?  .  .  . 
FrancUco,  it  u  feur  you  feel!  — 

And  Mich  a  miserable  fear 
That  you,  my  boy,  will  coll  it  pride;  — 
Hut  you  will  grope  from  year  to  year 
Until  at  hist  the  clouds  divide, 
And  all  at  once  you  meet  the  truth, 
And  curse  yourself,  with  helpless  rage, 
For  something  you  have  lost  with  youth 
And  found  again,  too  late,  with  age. 

The  truth,  my  brother,  is  just  this:  — 
\our  title  here,  is  nothing  more 
Or  less  than  what  your  courage,  is: 
The  in. in  must  put  himself  IK- fore 
Tin-  mime,  and  onee  the  master  stay 
Forever  —  or  forever  fall.  — 
Ciood-bye! —  Kememher  what  I  say  .  .  . 
(iood-hye!  — (iood-hye !  .  .  .  Ami  that  waa  all. 

The  lips  were,  still:  the  man  \\;is  dead.  — 
FraiUMM-o,  with  a  weird  aurprUo, 
Stood  like  abtranger  hv  the  l>ed, 
And  there  were  no  tears  in  his  eves. 
Hut  in  In  >  heart  there  watt  a  grief 
Too  strong  for  human  tears  to  free,  — 
And  in  his  hand  a  written  leaf 
For  C'alderon  across  the  sea. 

JOHN  eVI;KI;UX)WN 

•  \V liner  are  you  going  to-night,  to-night, — 
Where  are  you  going,  John  Kvereldown? 
There  *s  never  the  higu  of  a  star  in  sight, 
Nor  a  lamp  that 's  nearer  than  Tilbury  Town. 
Why  do  you  stare  as  a  dead  man  might? 
Where  are  you  pointing  away  from  the  light? 
And  where  are  you  going  to-night,  to-night,  — 
Where  are  you  going,  John  Kvereldown? 


—  23  — 

Right  through  the  forost,  where  none  can  se*t 

There  's  where  I  'm  going  to  Tilbury  Town. 

The  men  ar°  asleep  — or  awake,  may  be  — 

Hut  the  women  arc  calling  John  Evereldown. 

Ever  and  ever  they  call  for  me, 

And  while  they  enll  can  a  man  be  free?  — 

So  right  through  the  forest,  where  none  can 

see, 
There  *s  where  I  *m  going  to  Tilbury  Town. 

But  why  are  you  going  so  late,  so  late,  — 
Whv  are  vou  going,  John  Kvereldown? 
Though  the  road  be  smooth  and  the  path  be 

straight, 

There  are  two  long  leagues  to  Tilbury  Town. 
Come  in  bv  the  fire,  old  man,  and  wait! 
Why  do  you  chatter  out  there  by  the  gate? 

And  why  are  you  going  so  late,  so  late, 

Why  are  you  going,  John  Evcreldown? 

I  follow  the  women  wherever  they  call,  — 
That  's  why  I  *ni  going  to  Tilbury  Town. 
God  knows  if  I  pray  to  be  done  with  it  all, 
But  God  is  no  friend  to  John  Evereldown. — 
So  the  clouds  may  come  and  the  rain  may  fall. 
The   shadows    may  creep  and  the   dead   men 

crawl ;  — 

But  I  follow  the  women  wherever  they  call, 
And  that 's  why  I  'm  going  to  Tilbury  Town. 

THE  WORLD 

SOME  are  the  brothers  of  all  humankind, 
And  own  them,  whatsoever  their  estate; 
And  some,  for  sorrow  and  self-worn,  arc  blii?d 
With  enmity  for  man's  unguarded  fate. 

For  some  there  is  a  music  all  day  long 
Like  flutes  in  paradise,  they  are  so  glad; 
And  there  is  hell's  eternal  under-soug 
Of  corses  and  the  cries  of  men  gone  mad. 


-26  — 

Some  My  the  Scheme  with  love  htam.K  ItiininoiiH, 
Some  sav  't  wore  better  hack  to  chaos  hurled; 
And  to   t  U  what  we  at-   that  makes  for  u» 
The  measure  and  the  m<  Miiiug  of  the  world. 

CREDO 

i  CANNOT  find  my  way  :  there  is  no  htar 
In  all  the  shrouded  hea\t n>  anv  \\here; 
And  there  is  not  a  whi>|».  r  m  the  air 
Of  anv  living  voice  hut  out  MO  far 
That  1  can  hear  it  only  us  i  kn 
ot'  lost,  inijM  liiil  ttttftU',  |>la\cd  when  fair. 
And  angel  tinkers  wove,  and  unaware, 
Dead  leaves  to  garlands  where  no  roses  are. 

No,  there  U  not  a  glimmer,  nor  a  call, 
F«»r  one  that  welcomes,  welcomes  when  he  fear*. 
The  black  and  awful  chaos  of  the  night.  — 
KIT  through  it  all  —  above,  beyond  it  all  — 
I  know  the  fur-sent  message  of  the  yearn, 
I  feel  the  coming  tfhjry  of  the  Li^ht! 

THE  CHILDREN   OF  THE  NIGHT 

1  ou  those  that  never  know  the  light, 
The  darkness  is  a  Hulleii  thing; 
And  they,  the  Children  of  the  Night, 
Seem  lost  ia  Fortune'*  winnowing. 

Hut  some  arc  strong  and  some  are  weak,  - — 
And  there's  the  .->t<»rv.      House  and  home 
Are  shut  from  countless  hearts  tint  seek 
World-refuge  that  will  never  come. 

And  if  there  he.  no  other  life, 
And  if  there  he  no  other  ch:iucc 
To  weigh  their  sorrow  and  their  strife 
Thau  in  the  scales  of  circumstance  — 

T  were  better,  ere  the  sun  go  dow  n 
Uj>ou  the  tint  day  we  embark, 


, 


—  27  — 

In  life's  embittered  sea  to  drown 
Than  sail  forever  in  the  dark. 

But  if  there  be  a  soul  on  earth 
So  blinded  with  its  own  misuse 
Of  man's  revealed,  jnoessant  worth, 
Or  worn  with  anguish  that  it  views 

No  linht  but  for  a  mortal  eye  — 
No  rest  but  of  a  mortal  sleep  — 
No  (iod  but  in  a  prophet's  lie  — 
No  faith  for  "  honest  doubt "  to  keep  — 

If  there  be  nothing,  good  or  bad, 
But  ehaos  for  a  soul  to  trust,  — 
God  counts  it  for  a  soul  gone  mad, 
And  if  God  be  God,  He  b  just. 

And  if  God  be  God,  He  is  Love;  — 
And  though  the  Dawn  be  still  so  dim, 
It  shows  us  we  have  played  enough 
With  creeds  that  make  a- tic  ml  of  Him. 

There  is  one  creed,  and  only  one, 
That  glorifies  God's  excellence;  — 
So  cherish,  that  His  will  be- done, 
The  common  creed  of  common  sense. 

It  is  the  crimson,  not  the  gray. 
That  charms  the  twilight  of  all  time; 
It  is  the  promise  of  the  day 
That  makes  the  starry  sky  sublime  ; 

It  is  the  faith  within  the  fear 
•That  holds  us  to  the  life  we  cane;  — 
So  let  as  in  ourselves  revere 
The  Self  which  is  the  Universe! 

Let  us,  the  Children  of  the  Night, 
Put  off  the  cloak  that  hides  the  scar!  — 
Let  us  be  Children  of  the  Light, 
And  tell  the  aged  what  we  are! 


—28  — 

THE  CLERKS 

I  DID  not  think  that  I  should  flnd  them  there 
When  I  came  back  again  ;  but  there  they  stood, 
A*   in  the  days  they  dreamed  of  when   voumr 

blood 
Was  in  their  cheeks  and  women  called  them 

fair. 

He  sure,  they  met  mo  with  an  ancient  air, — 
And  ye*,  there  wan  u  hliop-woru  brotherhood 
About  them  ;  but  the  men  were  just  as  good, 
Ami  just  a*  human  as  they  over  were. 

Anil  you  that  aehe  HO  much  to  be  sublime, 
And   you  that  feed   yourselves   with  your  de- 

«eent, 
What    fume*    of  all     your     vi>i.»m    and    vour 

fear*?  — 

I'oets  and  kings  are  but  the  elerka  of  Time, 
Tiering  the  .same  dull  webn  of  diseoiitent,. 
C'lii»|»iiitf  the  Hame  Had  alna^e  of  the  years. 

A  BALLADE    BY  THE    FIRE 

SLOWLY  I  amoke  and  hu^  my  knee, 
The  while  a  witless  masquerade 
Of  thing*  that  only  i-hildren  &eo 
Float*  ii:  a  mi.«.t  of  light  and  shade  : 
They  pass,  u  flimsy  euvaleade, 
And  with  a  weak,  remindful  glow, 
The  fulling  embers  break  and  fade, 
As  one  by  one  the  oiiuntoms  go. 

Then,  with  a  melaneholy  glee 
To  think  where  onee  my  funey  htrayed, 
I  muse  on  wliat  the  years  may  bo 
WlioM-  eoming  titles  are  all  unsaid, 
Till  tongs  and  shovel,  snugly  laid 
Within  their  shadowed  niches,  grow 
Hy  grim  degrees  to  pick  and  spade, 
AH  one  by  one  the  phantoms  go. 


.-,;-.  —29— 

Hut  then,  what  though  the  mystic  Three 
Around  me  ply  their  merry  trade?  — 
And  Charon  soon  may  carry  me 
Across  the  gloomy  Stygian  glade?  — 
He  up,  my  soul!  nor  be  afraid 
Of  what  some  unlwrn  year  may  show;  — 
Hut  mind  your  human  debts  are  paid, 
As  one  by  one  the  phantoms  go. 

Life  is  the  gai.ie  that  must  be  played: 
This  truth  at  least,  good  friend,  we  know.  — 
So  live  and  laugh,  nor  be  dismayed 
As  one  by  one  the  phantoms  go. 

W&         ON  THE  NIGHT  OF 

A  FRIEND'S  WEDDING 

IF  ever  I  am  old,  and  all  alone, 
I  shall  have  killed  one  grief,  at  any  rate; 
For  then,  thank  God,  I  shall  not  have  to  wait 
Much  longer  for  the  sheaves  that  I  have  sown. 
The  devil  only  knows  wh.^t  I  have  done, 
Hut  here  I  am,  and  here  are  six  or  eight 
Good  friends  who  mos'.  ingenuously  prate 
About  my  songs  to  such  and  such  a  one. 

Hut  everything  is  all  askew  to-night,  — 
.'•.'..,          As  if  the  time  were  come,  or  almost  come, 
For  their  nntenanted  mirage  of  me 
To  lose  itself  and  crumble  out  of  sight  — 
Like  a  tall  ship  that  floats  above  the  foam 
A  little  while,  and  then  breaks  utterly. 

-••  „ 

VERLAINE 

WHY  do  you  dig  like  long-clawed  scavengers 
To  touch  the  covered  corpse  of  him  that  tied 
The  uplands  for  the  fens  and  rioted 
Like  a  sick  satyr  with  doom's  worshippers  ?  — 
Come  !  —  let  the  grass  grow  there;  and  leave  his 


—  30  — 

To  tell  the  «tory  of  the  life  he  led. 

Let  the  in,  ni  gu:  let  the  dead  flesh  be  dead, 

And  lut  the  worms  be  its  biographer*. 

Song  sloughs  away  the  sin  to  find  redress 
In  uit'»  complete  remembrance:  nothing  clings 
For  lung  but  laurel  to  the  stricken  brow 
That  frit  the  Mute'*  tili-er;   nothing  les* 
Than  hell's  fulfilment  of  the  end  of  thing!* 
Can  blot  the  star  that  shines  on  1'ai  is  now. 

THE  GARDEN 


TIIF.KK  is  a  fi'iieeli-ss  gurilen  overgrown 
\N  it  It  liiul.i  und  bhtM.soiitii  and  all  Mirt*  of  lea\t->; 
And  oiu-r,  uiuong  the  roses  and  the  >h«avfM, 
The  (  null  iit-r  and  I  were  there  alone. 
He  led  me  to  the  plot  when*  I  had  thrown 
The  femii'l  of  my  diiys  on  waited  ground, 
And  in  that  riot  of  sad  weeds  I  found 
Thu  fruitage  of  a  life  that  wa*  my  own. 

My  life!  .  .  .  Ah  yes,  there  *  a-s  my  life,  indeed! 
'And  there  were  all  the  lives  of  humankind; 
And  they  were  like  a  hook  that  I  eould  read, 
Whose  every  leaf,  miraculous!  v  Nigued, 
Outrolled  itsrlt  from  Thought  s  eternal  seed, 
I«ove-roott'd  in  (iod'a  garden  of  the  mind. 

TWO   SONNETS 


Jt'KT  H.S  I  wonder  at  the  twofohl  soreen 
Of  twihted  innoeeiice  that  you  wonhl  plait 
For  eyes  that  uneourageou.sly  a \\ait 
The  ruining  of  a  kingdom  that  has  been, 
So  do  1  wonder  what  (iod'a  love  ean  mean 
To  you  that  all  ho  strangely  estimate 
The  put  POM-  and  the  consequent  estate 
Of  one  short  shuddering  step  to  the  Unseen. 


—  31  — 

No,  I  have  not  your  backward  faith  to  shrink 
Lone-faring  from  the  doorway  of  God's  home, 
To  find  Him  in  the  names  of  buried  men; 
Nor  your  ingenious  reciranee  to  think 
We  cherish,  in  the  life  tliat  is  to  come, 
The  scattered  features  of  dead  friends  again. 


NEVER  until  our  souls  are  strong  enough 
To  plunge  into  the  crater  of  the  Scheme  — 
Triumphant  in  the  Hash  there  to  redeem 
love's  handsel  and  for  evermore  to  slough, 
Like  cerements  at  a  played-out   masque,  the 

rough 

And  reptile  skins  of  us  whereon  we  set 
The  stigma  of  scared  years  —  are  we  to  get 
Where  atoms  and  the  ages  are  one  stuff. 

Nor  ever  shall  we  know  the  cursed  waste 
Of  life  in  the  beneficence  divine 
Of  starlight  and  of  sunlight  and  soul-shine 
That  we  have  squandered  in  sin's  frail  distress. 
Till  we  have  drunk,  and  trembled  at  the  taste, 
The  mead  of  'ITiought's  prophetic  endlessness. 

WALT   WHITHAN 

THE  master-songs  are  ended,  and  the  man 
That  sang  them  is  »  name.     And  so  is  God 
A  name;  and  so  is  love,  and  life,  and  death, 
And  everything.  —  But  we,  who  are  too  blind 
To  read  what  we  have  written,  or  what  faith 
Has  written  for  us,  do  not  understand: 
We  only  blink,  and  wonder. 

Last  night  it  was  the  song  that  was  the  roan, 
But  now  it  is  the  man  that  is  the  song. 
We  do  not  hear  him  very  much  to-day;  — 
His  piercing  and  eternal  cadence  ring* 
Too  pure  for  us  —  too  powerfully  pure, 


Too  lovingly  triumphant,  and  too  large; 
Hut  then*  art*  some  that  hear  him,  and  they  kuuw 
That  he  t>hall  sing  to-morrow  for  all  men, 
Ami  that  oil  time  shall  listen.  . 

The  master-songs  are  ended?  —  Hather  say 

No  songs  are  ended  that  are  ever  sung, 

And  that  no  named  are  dead  name*.      When  we 

write 

Men's  letters  tut  proud  marble  or  on  sand, 
We  write  them  there  forever. 

Kosnos 

All,  shuddering  men  that  falter  and  shrink  so 
To  look  on  death,  —  what  were  the  days  we  live, 
Where  life  is  half  a  struggle  to  forgive, 
Hut  for  tin;  love  that  find*  us  when  we  go? 
Is  God  a  jester? —  lK.es  he  laugh  and  throw 
Poor  hranded  wretehes  here  to  sweat  and  strive 
For  some  vague  end  that  never  shall  arrive?  — 
And  is  lie  not  yet  weary  of  the  show? 

Think  of  it,  all  ye  millions  that  have  planned, 
And  only  planm-d,  the  larges.s  of  hard  youth! 
Think  of  it,  all  ye  builder*  on  the  sand, 
Whose  works  are  down!  —  Is  love  so  small,  for 
sooth? 

lie  brave! —  To-morrow  you  will  understand 
The  doubt,  the  pain,  the  triumph,  and  the  Truth! 

AN   OLD  STORY 

STK  \NtiK  that  I  did  not  know  him  then, 

That  friend  of  mine!  — 

I  diil  not  even  show  him  then 

One  friendly  sign; 

Hut  cursed  him  for  the  ways  he  had 
To  make  me  see 
My  envv  of  the  praise  he  had 
For  praising  me. 


.  —  33  — 

I  would  h.ive  rid  the  earth  of  him 
Oner,  in  my  pride!  .  .  . 
I  never  knew  the  worth  of  him 
Until  he  died. 

A    POEH    FOR 
HAX    NORDAU 

IH'N  shades  quiver  down  the  lone  long  fallow, 
And  thrscared  night  shudders  at  the  hrown  owl's 

ery; 

The  Weak  reeds  rattle  as  the  winds  whirl  by, 
And  frayed  leaves  flutter  through  the  clumped 

shnilts  callow. 

Chill  dews  elinging  on  the  low  cold  mallow 
Make  a  steel-keen   shimmer   where  the  spent 

stems  lie; 

Pan  shades  quiver  down  the  lone  long  fallow, 
And    the  scared  night  shudders  at  the  brown 

owl's  cry. 

Pale  stars  peering  through  the  clouds*  curled 

shallow 

Make  a  thin  still  flicker  in  a  foul  round  sky; 
Hlaek  damp  shadows  through  the  hushed  air  fly; 
The  lewd  gloom  wakens  to  a  moon-sad  sallow, 
Dun  shades  quiver  down  the  lone  long  fallow. 

BOSTON 

MY  northern  pines  are  good  enongh  for  me, 
But  there  's  a  town  my  memory  nprears  — 
A  town  that  always  like  a  friend  appear?, 
And  always  in  the  sunrise  by  the  sea. 
And  over  it,  somehow,  there  seems  to  be 
A  downward  fla^h  of  something  new  and  fierce 
That  ever  strives  to  clear,  but  never  clean 
The  dimness  of  a  charmed  antiquity. 

I  know  my  Boston  is  a  counterfeit, — 
A  frameless  imitation,  all  bereft 


—  at— 


Of  living  nearness,  imiho,  and  common  tpeech; 
Hut  I  am  glad  for  every  glimpse  of  it,  — 
And  there  it  is  —  plain  ad  a  name  that  *s  left 
In  letters  by  warm  hands  I  cunnut  reach. 

THE   NIGHT    BEFORE 

•'  At  if  God  uttol«  liiiu  aiul  tlu-n  woudorvd  why." 
LOOK  yon,  Dominc;  look  yon,  and  listen. 
Look  in  my  face,  first:  search  every  line  there; 
Mark  every  feature,  —  chin,  lip,  and  forehead. 
Look  in  my  eyes,  and  tell  ine  the  lesson 
Yon  read  there;  —  measure  my  nose,  and  tell  me 
Where  I  am  wanting.     A  man's  i.ose,  Domine, 
Is  often  the  east  of  his  inward  spirit;  — 
So  mark  mine  well.  .  .  .   Hut  why  do  you  smile 

80?  - 

Pity,  or  what?  —  Is  it  written  all  over, 

This  faee  of  mine,  with  a  brute**  confession?  — 

Nothing    hut    aiu  there  ?     nothing    but    hell- 

sea  rn?  — 

Or  is  it  'because  there  is  something  better  — 
A  glimmer  of  good,  mayl»e,  —  or  a  shadow 
Of  something  that  's  followed  me  down   from 

childhood  — 

Followed  me  all  these  years  and  kept  me, 
Spite  of  my  slips  and  sins  and  follies  — 
Spite  of  my  last  red  sin,  my  mimler,  — 
Just  out  of  hell?  —  Yes?  —  something  of  that 

kind? 
And  you  smile  for   that?  .  .  .  You  're  a  good 

man,  Domine!  — 

The  one  good  man  in  the  world  who  knows  me  — 
My  one  good  friend  in  a  world  that  moeks  me, 
Here  in  this  hard  stone  cage.  .  .  .  Hut  I  leave 

it 
To-morrow.  .   .  .  To-morrow!  —  My  (lod!    am 

I  crying?  — 
Are  thes'e  things  tears?  —  Tears!  —  What!  am 

I  frightened  ?  — 
I  who  swore  I  should  go  to  the  scaffold 


—  35  — 

With  big  strong  steps,  and  ...  No  more, — 

I  thank  you, 
But  no.  ...  I  am  all  right  now!  .  .  .  No!  — 

listen! 

1  am  here  to  l>e  hanged:  to  be  lianged  to-mor 
row  — 

At  six  o'clock,  when  the  sun  is  rising.  — 
And  why  am  I   here?  —  Not  a  soul  can  tell  you 
But  this  poor  shivering  thing  before  you  — 
This  fluttering  wreck  of  the  man  God   made 

him. 

For  God  knows  what  wild  reason.  —  Hear  me, 
And  learn  from  my  lips  the  truth  of  my  story.  — 
.    There's   nothing  strange  in  what  I   shall  tell 

you  — 

Nothing  mysterious,  nothing  unearthly,  — 
But  damnably  human;  —  and  you  shall  hear  it. 
Not  one  of  those  little  black  lawyers  were  told 

it; 
The  judge,  with  his  big  bald  head,  never  knew 

And  the  jury  (God  rest  their  poor  souls!  )  never 
dreamed  it,  — 

Once  there  were  three  in  the  world  who  could 
tell  it,  — 

Now  there  are  two.  There  11  be  two  to-mor 
row  :  — 

You,  my  friend,  aad  .  .  .  But  there 's  the  story. 

When  I  was  a  boy  the  world  was  heaven. 
I  never  knew  then  that  the  men  and  the  women 
Who  petted  and  called  me  a  brave  big  fellow 
Were  ever  less  happy  than  I ;  but  wisdom  — 
Which  comes  with  the  years,  you  know,  —  soon 

showed  me 

The  secret  of  all  my  glittering  childhood  — 
The  broken  key  to  *the  fairies'  castle 
That  held  my  life  in  the  fresh  glad  season 
When   1  was  the  king  of  the   earth.— Then 

glowly  — 


—  30  — 

And  yet  so  swiftly!  —  there  came  the  know 
ledge 
That  tho  marvelous  life  I  hud  lived  was  my 

life; 
That  the  glorious  world  1  haul  loved  was  my 

world;  — 

And  that  every  man  and  every  woman 
And  every  child  was  a  different  being, 
\Vrou-l»t, witli  a  different  heat  and  tired 
With  pansiouH  bom  of  a  »iugle  hpirit; — 
That  tin-  pleasure  I  felt  wax  nut  their  pleasure, 
Nor  my  »orr«>w  —  a  kind  of  imim-leh*  pity 
For  something,  I  knew  not  what  —  their  sorrow. 
And  thus  wax  I  tan- lit  my  that  hard  lesson, — 
Tin-  It  >-on  we  Mill,  i  the  most  in  learning: 
That  a  happy  man  it  a  man  forfeit  id 
Of  all  the  toi  turiiig  tll»  around  him. 

When  or  where  I  first  met  tho  woman 
J  eheiUhed  and   made  my  wife,  no  matter. 
Knongh  to  hay  that  I  found  her  and  kept  her 
Here  iji  my  heart  with  as  pure  a  devotion 
AH  ever  Christ  felt  for  hi*  brothers.    Forgive  me 
For  naming  his  name  iu  your  patient  presence; 
Hut  J  feel  my  words,  und  the  truth  I  utter 
Is  Hod's  own  truth.     1  loved  that  woman!  — 
Not  for  her  faee,  but  for  bomething  fairer  — 
Something  diviner  —  I  thought  —  than  Wanty: 
1  loved  the  spirit  — the  human  something 
That  seemed  to  ehime  with  my  own  eoudition, 
And  makcsoul-tmiMe  when  we  we  it?  together; — 
And  we  were  never  apart  from  the  moment 
My  eyes  flashed  into  her  eyes  the  mes.sagu 
That  hwept  it.ielf  in  a  quivering  answer 
Hack  through  mv  htraiige  l<»t  being.     My  pnlnes 
Leapt  with  an  aehing  hpeed ;  and  the  measure 
()f  this  great  world  grew  Miiall  and  Miualler, 
Till  it  heemed  the  riky  and  the    land  and    the 

oeean 

Closed  at  last  in  a  'nist  all  golden 
Around  UM  two.  —  And  we  stood  for  a  season 


—  37  — 

Like  gods  out  flung  from  chaos,  dreaming 
That  we  were  the  king  and  the  queen  of  the  fire 
That  reddened  tin-  clouds  of  love  that  held  us 
Blind  to  the  new  world  soon  to  he  ours  — 
Ours  Jo  seize  and  sway.     The  passion 
Of  that  great  love  was  a  nameless  passion  — 
Bright  as  the  hlaze  of  the  sun  at  noonday, 
Wild  as  the  flames  of  hell;  hut,  uiark  you, 
Never  a  whit  less  pure  for  its  fervor. 
The  Imseness  in  me  (for  1  was  human) 
Burned  like  a  worm,  and  perished;  and  nothing 
Was  left  me  then  hut  a  soul  that  mingled 
Itself  with  hers,  and  swayed  and  shuddered 
In  fearful  triumph.  —  When  I  consider 
That  helpless  love  and  the  cursed  folly 
That  w reeked  iny  life  for  the  sake  of  a  woman, 
Who  broke    with  a   laugh   the    chains    of   her 

marriage 

(Whatever  the  word  may  mean)  I  wonder 
If  all  the  woe  was  her  sin,  or  whether 
The  chains  tlwimelVM  were  enough  to  lend  her 
In  love's  despite  to  break  them.  .  .  .Sinners 
And  saints  —  1  viv  —  :>n>  rooked  in  the  cradle, 
But  never  are  known  till  the  will  within  them 
Speaks  in  its  own  good  time,  —  So  I  foster 
Kven  to-night  for  the  woman  who  wronged  me 
,     Xothinjj  of  hate,  nor  of  hive,  but  a  foeling 
Of  still  regret,  —  For  the  man  .  .  .  But  hear  me, 
And  judge  for  yourself:  — 

For  a  time  the  seasons 
Changed  and  parsed  in  a  sweet  succession 
That  seemed  to  me  like  «n  endless  music: 
Life  was  a  rolling  psalm,  and  the  choirs 
Of  God  were  glad  for  our  love.  —  I  fancied 
All  this,  and  more  than  I  dare  to  tell  you 
To-night,  —  yes,  more  than  I  dare  to  remem 
ber;— 
And  then  ....  well,  the  music  stopped.  There 

are  moments 
In  all  men's  lives  when  it  stops,  I  fancy,  — 


—  38  — 

Or  seem*  to  stop,  —  (ill  it  comes  to  cheer  them 
Again  with  a  larger  wound.     Tin-  ciirtuiu 
Of  life  just  then  ia  lift, -a  a  little 
To  give  to  their  sight  new  joys  —  new  sorrows  — 
Or  nothing  at  all,  HomctimcH.  —  I  was  watching 
The  H!OW  sweet  seem-.-  of  a  golden  picture, 
Flushed  ami  alive  with  a  long  delusion 
That  made  the  murmur  of  home,  when  I  shud 
dered 

And  felt  like  a  knife  th.it  awful  silence 
That  coineH  when  the  music  goe*  —  forever. 
The  trnth  came  over  my  life  like  a  darkness 
Over  a  forest  where  one  man  wanders, 
Worse  than  alone.     For  a  time  I  daggered 
And  stumbled  on  with  a  weak  persistence 
After  the  phantom  of  hope  that  darted 
And  dodged  like  a  frightened  thing  In-fore  we, 
To  quit  me  at  last,  .tin I  vanish.     Nothing 
Was  left  me  then  hut  the  curse  of  living 
And  Waring  through  all  my  da\  ••,  the  fever 
And  thir.st  of  a  poiMtned  love.  — Were  I  stronger, 
Or  weaker,  perhaps  mv  scorn  had  navcd  me  — 
(liven  me  strength  to  crush  my  hoi  row 
With  hate  for  her  and  the  world    that   praised 

her  — 

To  have  left  her,  then  and  there,  — to  have  con 
quered 

That  old  falhe  life  with  a  new  and  a  wiser;  — 
Such  things  are  easy  in  word*.  .  .  .  You  listen, 
And  frown,  1  MIJIJM.M-,  that  1  never  mention 
That  beautiful  word,  /i/ryu-r  /  —  I  forgave  her 
First  of  all;  and  1  praised  kind  heaven 
That  I  wan  a  brave  clean  man  to  do  it; 
And  then  I  tried  to  forget. —  Forgiveness!  .  .  . 
What  does  it  mean  \\hcii  the  one  forgiven 
Shivers  and  weeps  and  clings  and  ktsiwt 
The   ereiluloiiM  fool   that    holds   her,  and  tellt 

him 

A  thousand  thing*  of  a  good  man'*  merry, 
And  then  slips  «.ll  with  a  laugh  and  plunges 
Hack  to  the  .sin  she  has  quit  for  a  season 


—  30  — 

To  tell  him  that  boll  and  the  world  are  better 

For  her  than  a  prophet's  heaven?  —  Believe  me, 

The  love  that  dies  ere  its  flames  are  wasted 

In  search  of  an  :  lien  soul  is  In-tter, 

Better  by  far  than  the  lonely  passim 

That  bums  baek  into  the  heart  that  feeds  it. 

For  I  loved  her  still;  and  the  more  she  mocked 

me,  — 

Fooled  with  her  endless  pleading  promise 
Of  future  faith,  the  more  I  believed  her 
The  penitent  thing  she  seemed;  and  the  stronger 
Her  ehoking  arms  and  her  small  hot  kisses 
Hound  me  and  burned  my  brain  to  pity. 
The  more  she  grew  to  the  heavenly  creature 
That  brightened  the  life  I  had  lost  forever. 
The  truth  was  gone  somehow  for  the  moment; 
The  curtain  fell  for  a  time;  and  I  fancied 
We  were  again  like  gods  together, 
Loving  again  with  the  old  glad  rapture.  — 
But  the  scenes,  like  these,  too  often  repeated, 
Failed  nt  last  and  her  gnile  was  wasted, 
1  made  an  end  of  her  shrewd  caresses 
And  told  her  a  few  straight  words.     She  took 

them  .  -  - 

Full  at  their  worth  —  and  the  faree  was  over. 

At  first  my  dreams  of  the  past  upheld  me, 
But  they  were  a  short  supj>ort:  the  present 
Pushed  them  away,  and  I  fell.     The  mission 
Of  life  (whatever  it  was)  was  blasted; 
My  game  was  lost.     And  I  met  the  winner 
Of  that  foul  deal  as  a  sick  slave  gathers 
His  painful  strength  at  the  sight  of  his  master; 
And  when  he  WHS  past  I  cursed  him,  fearful 
Of  that  strange  chance  which  makes  us  mighty 
Or  mean,  or  both.  —  I  cursed  him  and  hated 
The  stones  he  pressed  with  his  heel;  I. followed 
His  easy  march  with  a  backward  envy, 
And  cursed  myself  for  the  beast  within  me.  — 
But  pride  is  the  master  of  love;  and  the  vision 
Of  those  old  days  grew  faint  and  fainter:  — 


—  40  — 

The  counterfeit  wife  my  mercy  idicltered 
Wan  nothing  now  but  a  woman;  — it  woman 
Out  of  my  way,  and  out  of  my  nature.  — 
My  buttle  with  blinded  love  was  over, 
M  v  battle  with  aching  pride  l»e^iiming.  — 
If  I  vus  the  loHcr  ut  lir.it,  I  wonder 
If  I  ant  tin-  winner  uowt  ...   I  doubt  it. 
My  l:.fe  is  u  losing  game;  and  to-morrow  .  .   . 
TuHnorrow!     .    .     .    Christ! —  did    1    say  to 
morrow  ?  .  .  . 

I>  ymir  brandy  gootl  for  death?  . ..  .  There;  — 
listen:  — 

When  love  goes  out,  and  a  man  is  driven 
To  bhnii  mankind  for  the  sears  that  make  him 
A  joke  for  all  chattering  tongues,  h*«  carries 
A  double  burden.     The  wtH-s  I  suffered 
After  tbat  hard  Ixurayal  made  me 
1'ity,  at  tii  >t,  all  breathing  creature* 
On  this  bewildered  earth.      1  studied 
Their  faces  and  made  for  in)  self  tbe  ntory 
Of  ail  their  Mcattered  liven.     Like  brother* 
And    HixtrrH  they   hccmcd   to   me   then;  and   I 

liourUhrd 

A  ntran^er  friendship  wrought  in  my  fancy 
Hctweeli  thone  |ieo|»le  and  me.  —  Hut  somehow, 
AH  time  went  on,  there  came  «|iieer  ^l.iiu-es 
Out  of  their  e\es;  and  the  hhamethat  stiiiig  me 
llurassed  my  pride  with  a  era/ed  impression 
That  every  face  in  the  surging  city 
Was  turned  to  me;  and  I  saw  hi/  whis|H'rs, 
Now  and  then,  as  I  walked  and   wearied 
M\  Wasted  life  twice  over  in  bearing 
With  all  my  sorrow  the  sorrows  of  other*,  — 
Till   I    found  myself  tbeir  fool.      Then  1  trem 
bled  — 

A  poor  seared  thing  —  and  their  prving  faces 
Told  me  the  ghastly  truth:  —  they  were  laughing 
At  me,  and  my  fate.     My  (Jod,  1  could  feel  it  — 
That  laughter!  —  And  then  the  children  caught 


—  41  — 

Ami  I,  like  a  struck  dog,  crept  and  listened. 
And  then  when  I  met  tin-  man  who  had  weakened 
A  woman's  love  to  his  own  desire, 
It  seemed  to  me  that  all  hell  were  laughing 
In  fiendish  concert!  —  I  was  their  victim  — 
And  his,  and  hate's.     And  there  was  the  strug 
gle  !— 

As  long  as  the  earth  we  tread  holds  something 
A  tortured  heart  can  love,  the  meaning 
Of  life  is  not  wholly  blurred;  but  after 
The  last  loved  thing  in  the  world  has  left  us, 
We  know  the  triumph  of  hate.     The  glory 
Of  good  goes  out  forever;  the  beacon 
Of  sin  is  the  light  that  leads  us  downward  — 
I>own  to  the  fiery  end.     The  road  runs 
Kight  through  hell;  and  the  souls  that  follow 
The  cursed  ways  where  its  windings  lead  them 
Suffer  enough,  I  say,  to  merit 
All  grace  that  a  God  can  give.  — The  fashiou 
Of  our  lielief  is  to  lift  all  beings 
Born  for  a  life  that  knows  no  struggle 
In  sin's  tight  snares  to  eternal  glory  — 
All  apart  from  the  branded  millions 
Who  carrv  through  life  their  faces  graven 
With  sure  brute  scars  that  tell  the  story 
Of  their  foul,  fated  passions.  —  Science 
Has  yet  no  salve  to  smooth  or  soften 
The  cradle-sears  of  a  tvrant's  visage;  — 
Xo  drug  to  purge,  from  the  vital  essence 
Of  souls  the  sleeping  venom.     Virtue 
May  flower  in  hell,  when  its  roots  are  twisted 
A nd  wound  withtherootsof  vice;  butthejstronger 
Never  is  known  till  there  comes  that  battle 
With  sin  to  prove  the  victor.     PeriloJis 
Things  are  these  demons  we  call  our  passions — 
Slaves  are  we  of  their  roving  fancies, 
Fools  of  tiieir  devilish  glee.  —  You  think  me, 
I  know,  in  this  maundering  way  designing 
To  lighten  the  load  of  my  guilt  and  cast  it 
Half  on  the  shoulders  of  God  .  .  .  Bat  bear 
met  — 


— It— 

1  'in  partly  u  man  —  fur  all  my  wraknc**,  — 
If  woukiK'HH  it  wrrc  tn  htand  an. I  ii'iuder 
llcfo.-o  men'»  eyes  tlu<  IIIHII  who  had  immli  i«  <l 
Mr,  uiul  tlrivru  my  burning  forehead 
With  horns  fur  ihe  wurUI  tu  laugh  at  ...  Tru&t 

mi-!  — 

And  try  tu  l>elieve  my  word*  hut  a  portion 
Of  what  (i oil's  purpose  made  me  ! —  1'he  coward 
Within  mo  cues  for  tin*; — and  I  beg  you 
Now,  as  1  come  tu  the  end,  tu  remember 
Th.it  women  and  mm  ,iu-  on  earth  tu  travel 
All  on  a  different  road,     Hereafter 
'i'ln-  road-,  may  mcut ...  1  trust  in  something  — 
I  know  not  what  .  .  . 

Well,  thin  was  thr  way  of  it:  — 
Stung  with  the  .si, aim-  and  thr  .secret  fury 
That  comritto  the  man  who  has  thro*  u  hi*  pittance 
Of  M-ll  at  a  tr.nttu'-.  frrt,  1  wandrn-il 
Wrck«  and  wrrki  in  a  hal'llril  firn/y, 
Till  at  last  the  devil  aimke.     I  hratrd  him, 
And  laughed   ut   the   iovu  that  htrovu  tu  touch 

me  —  t  .  , 

The  dead,  lost  love;  —  and  I  gripprd  thr  demon 
(Mo.se  tu  my  hrra>t,  and  held  him,  pr.ii-.ing 
The  fatc»  .mil  tin-  furiestlutt  gave  me  the  courage 
Tu  follow  hit*  wild  command.  —  forgetful 
Of  all  to  come  ulu-n  the  work  was  uver  — 
There  came  tu  me  then  nu  htonv  vixiuu 
Of  these  three  hundred  days —  I  rhcrisdied 
An  awful  joy  in  my  hrain.     I  pondered 
And  weighed  the  thing  in  my  mind,  and  gloried 
In  life  tu  think  tint  1  was  to  eoinpier 
l)cath  at  his  own  dark  door,  — and  chuckled 
To  think  of  it  done  MI  cleanly.  —  One  evening 
1  knew  that  my  time  had  come.     I  shuddered 
A  little,  hut  rather  for  douht  than  terror, 
And  followed  him  —  led  hy  the  nameless  devil 
I  worshipped  and  called  my  brother.  —  The  city 
Shone  like  a  dream  that  night:  the  windowrt 
Flashed  with  a  piercing  ilamc,and  the  pavements 


—  43  — 

Pulsed  nn<l  swayed  with  a  warmth  —  or  some 
thing 
Hint  seemed  »o  then  to  my  foot  —  and  thrilled 

me 

With  a  quick,  dizzy  joy;  and  the  women 
And  men,  like  marvellous  things  of  magic, 
Floated  and  laughed  and  sang  by   my  shoulder. 
Sent  with  a  wizard  motion.      Through  it 
And  over  and  under  it  all  there  sounded 
A  nmrnmr  of  life,  like  bees;  and  I  listened 
And  laiighrtl  again  to  think  of  the  flower 
That  grew,  blood  red,  for  me!  .  .  .  This  fellow 
Was  one  of  the  popular  sort  who  flourish 
»     Uunifiled'wheregodswouldfall.  Foraconscienee 
He  carried  a  snug  deceit  that  made  him 
The  man  of  the  time  and  the  place,  whatever 
The   time  or  the   place   might   be:  —  were  he 

sounding 

With  a  genial  craft  that  cloaked  its  purpose, 
Nigh  to  itself,  the  depth  of  a  woman 
Fooled  with  his  brainless  art,  —  or  sending 
The  midnight  home  with  songs  and  bottles, — >• 
The  cad  was  there,  and  his  ease  forever 
Shone  with  the  smooth  and  slippery  polish 
That  tells  the  snake.  —  That  night  he  drifted 
Into  an  tip-town  haunt  and  ordered  — 
Whatever  it  was  —  with  a  soft  assurance 
That  made  me  mad  as  I  stood  behind  him, 
Gripping  his  death,  and  waited.  —  Coward, 
I  think,  is  the  name  the  world  has  given 
To  men  like  mo;  but  I  '11  swear  I  never 
Thought  of  mv  own  disgrace  when  I  shot  him .  .  . 
Yes,  in  the  back;  —  I  know  it.     I  know  it 
Now,  but  what  if  I  do?  .   .  .  As  I  watched  him 
Lying  there  dead  in  the  scattered  sawdust, 
Wet  with  a  day's  blown  froth,  I  noted 
That  things  were  still:  —  that  the  walnnt  tables, 
Where  men  but  a  moment  before  were  sitting, 
Were  gone ;  —  tlia*  a  screen  of  something  around 

me 
Shut  them  ont  of  my  sight.     But  the  gilded 


-44  — 


Signs  of  a  hundred  In  ITS  aiul  whiskies 

Flashed  from  the  walls  above,  and  the  mirrors 

Ami  glasses  In-hind  tlu-  bar  were  lighted 

In  some  ht  range  way,  aiul  into  my  spirit 

A  thousand  shafts  of  terrible  tiro 

(turned  like  death,  uiul  1  fell.  —  The  .story 

Of  wlmteamu  tlien,  you  know. 

Hut  tell  me, 
What  dtH's  the  whole  thing  menu?  —  What  are 

we  — 

Slaves  of  an  awful  Ignorance? —  puppets 
Pulled  by  attend?  —  or  gtnla  without  knowingit? 
Do  \\e  shut  from  ourselves  our  own  salvation, — 
Or  what  do  we  do! —  1  tell  \on,  Homine, 
There  are  tim«  .•»  in  the  liven  of  us  poor  deviU 
When  heaven  and  hell  get  mixed:  —  though  i-on- 

seieiu-e 

May  eoine  like  a  whis(ter  of  Christ  to  warn  ua 
Away  from  our  sins,  it  is  lost  or  laughed  at,  — 
Anil  then  we  fall.     And  for  all  who  have  fallen  — 
Kvell  for  him  - — I  hold  no  imtlk'e, 
Nor  iniu-h  eoinpassion:  a  mightier  mercy 
Than  mine  must  &hrieve  him. —  And  I,  —  1  am 

going 

Into  the  light?  —  or  into  the  darkness? 
Why  do  1  sit  through  these  Mrkening  hours, 
And    hope?  —  (iood    (Jotl!    are    they   hours!  — 

hours?  .  .  . 

Yes!  —  lam  done  with  days. —  And  to-morrow  — 
We  two  may  meet!  .  .  .  To-morrow!  .  .  .  To 
morrow!  .  .  . 


